Half an Hour a Day
by LaSuen
Summary: A bench in the park and a lot of talking. One-shot. Slash.


**Title: **Half an hour a day (Полчаса в день)

**Author**: Hvostya

**Translator**: LaSuen

**Beta**: Eonen

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything

**Summary**: A bench in the park, dialogues and fluff.

**A/N**: I'd like to thank Hvostya for this beautiful story! And I thank Eonen, for she was of great help to me. Please, remember that reviews are much appreciated! Hope you will enjoy it!

**Half an hour a day**

A luxurious Rolls-Royce stopped not far from the benches which stood on the sightseeing shore of the lake. A few old women got incensed by such insolent rulebreaking, but in the blink of an eye their attention was called towards a young mother, whose attire and behaviour were rather improper – she was running after her fair-haired curly little boy, laughing a bit too boisterously.

The man in the front seat of the car said something to the driver, got out and carefully shut the door. A long wooden stick protruded out of the pocket of his Very-Expensive-Grey-Suit; the colours of his boot laces did not match, but all the rest was flawless: the thin-rimmed glasses, the perfect hairdo, the intelligent face, the beautiful wrists speaking for themselves – the man didn't struggle to earn his money. The old women gasped; one of them whispered to the other that she had seen him on TV. The young mother halted and straightened her skirt sheepishly, her eyes downcast.

But the man didn't care.

He looked round all the benches, arranged in the chessboard method. Most of them were occupied by couples – some cuddling and snogging, others arguing; only one of the benches had an empty spot on its right side. The man frowned, stood on his tiptoes for a second, approached the bench and, without asking whether it was okay to do so, sat and stretched out his legs, exhaling with undisguised pleasure.

A peaceful idyllic picture of the lake, glistening under the evening sun, was somehow marred by the skyscraper looming over the trees, but that wasn't disturbing.

"Tough day, Minister?" said someone to his left.

He turned to his neighbour, and astonishment sparkled in his eyes for a moment, but faded away almost at once.

"I could've guessed," he said. "Your portrait never spoke."

"Maybe it was you it did not want to speak to?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," the Minister turned his gaze to the lake again. "The day was tough indeed."

"It is so exhausting to hand out autographs… I understand."

He snorted.

"I have a specially trained assistant for that. As an encouragement, once a month I take her to dinner, and then she writes compelling letters, copying my handwriting.

"Then, parties with a throng of mealy imbeciles?"

"No."

"Got sick of champagne and oysters?"

"I hate oysters. And champagne as well."

"What is it, then?"

"They want to reorganize Hogwarts, that is to say, to phase out the Houses and sort students according to their accomplishments, not their character."

"Don't you approve of it? You, the man who taught every wizard in this country how to handle a tea-kettle and abrogated the term 'pureblood'?"

"No," he said, loosening his tie, and looked at the man he was talking to. "The reforms and the popularisation of the idea of blending in with Muggles yielded slightly unexpected results. Children of the hereditary wizarding families, who think that being a Muggle is cool, don't care which House they belong to any more. The decision about the union is… too much."

"Do you still act before thinking?" That was more of a statement than a question.

"Why am I telling you all this?" With that, the Minister crossed his legs and looked at the lake again.

"Because everyone else is a servile fawner."

"Not everyone." He paused. "The reform was suggested by Malfoy."

"Lucius?"

"Of course not! Draco. He is now in the Department of Educational Affairs, and he is still the same impertinent ferret whose life's goal is to make mine hell."

"You flatter yourself. It is more likely that his children are in Slytherin."

"His son."

The man he was talking to raised his eyebrows as if saying that-was-my-point-exactly.

"Maybe," the Minister nodded and consulted his wristwatch. "I've got to go."

"Goodbye, Mr. Potter."

"You know, I could… on second thought, no. You would not come all the same."

"Indeed," the man agreed.

"Anyway… See you."

*_*_*

The next evening, passing Hyde Park, the Minister first smiled, then asked the driver to stop. Nearly hopping, he hurried to the bench. Such сonduct wasn't like him, but that day he could afford to act like a teenager for a while.

As he spotted the man from yesterday sitting on the same bench, Minister's face shone with a rare smile.

"Hello, professor," he greeted him, sitting down.

"Good evening… Potter, now you are going to harass me each and every evening?"

"Do you mind?"

"Hardly," the man answered. "Just wanted to know."

"Then I am." With that, like the evening before, he stretched his legs and squinted contentedly. "Hogwarts remains unchanged."

"Is that why your face is shining as brightly as the polish of your car?"

"Do you like it?"

The professor turned round and shrugged.

"Big and black. I can't but like it."

Potter's smile widened even more.

"Do you want me to take you for a drive?"

"No, thanks." He lowered his head and pulled out a cigarette pack. "Do you mind?"

"No. You smoke?"

"Merlin, what a stupid question! No, I was going to feed it to ducks!"

"There aren't any ducks here."

"There will be. Closer to November."

"Okay," said Potter, still smiling. "Do you come here all year round?"

"No." The man lit his cigarette and inhaled the fragrant smoke.

"You know… I'm glad that you're alive."

"You might be surprised, but so am I."

The Minister couldn't help laughing a low laugh, which didn't fit at all with his grave appearance.

"You haven't changed in the slightest."

"But then you have changed so much that I begin to wildly miss the good old days of war," said the professor.

"Is it that bad?"

'No, but this seriousness is unlike you, and so are these ugly suit and hairdo. Let the glasses be, though."

"We don't wear robes anymore," the Minister finally quit smiling and looked at the couple passing by. "Neither do you."

"I live here," said the professor with a wave of his hand. "I am not supposed to. What's wrong with robes?"

"Nothing. It is all Ginny's doing."

"Mrs. Potter wants everybody to see her wonderful dresses?"

"Something like that," Minister's smile acquired a sad tinge. "She does it so well – abolishing robes, introducing technology. You know, it wasn't me who made Muggle clothing fashionable, it is all thanks to my wife. I'm still amazed at her ability to make the whole world dance to her tune."

"And that upsets you? Of all things…!"

"Robes are more comfortable and practical."

"But then electricity is cheaper."

"I didn't know you were so pragmatic." Potter sniffed and gazed at the professor's mouth, circled around the next puff of smoke. "Or that you smoked. Or that you had everyone believe in that death of yours."

"I was born guilty," the man snorted, shaking down the ashes into the adjacent garbage can. "Who should know that but you? And I wasn't talking about robes."

"I pretended I didn't understand."

"As you like," the professor inhaled again and breathed out a wreath of smoke. "But being the chief wizard amongst others living on this piece of island, you are the one to decide what to wear."

"I've got to go," sober at once, Potter stood up, reaching his hand out. The professor ignored it and gave him a slightly contemptuous look. "Okay, then."

"What, don't you want to say 'see you later'?"

"No." Potter turned around and, without looking back, made for his pricy car.

***_*_***

Two days later, driving by Hyde Park, the Minister averted his gaze and furrowed his eyebrows.

On the third day, he got out of the car, its door slammed of its own accord, and plopped onto the bench.

"I see that you are finally capable of making the right decisions," the professor said, eyeing the jeans and sweater of familiar knitting. "Commendable."

"Today's Sunday," Potter looked at him with a sly squint. "Tomorrow I'll wear a suit again."

"Shame. There must be some difference between us and… Muggles."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"Why aren't you with Mrs Potter and the brood of young Potters?"

"The "brood" is in Diagon Alley buying books and plundering Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Ginny's with them."

"What about you?"

"I'm not."

"Whippersnapper." The man scoffed, but there were new, warm notes in his voice instead of the usual causticity. "I am curious about the Minister being on his own, without his usual retinue of Aurors. Are you not afraid?"

"There are hundreds of tracers around, our every word is being recorded."

The professor's face turned into an inscrutable mask.

"This is… an outrage!"

"They were installed this morning. I couldn't do anything." He lifted his hands in apology. "It's this or be tailed by Aurors. I'm sorry, professor Snape."

"I shall not be here tomorrow."

"I'll miss you," said Potter seriously.

*_*_*

But the next day Snape was on the same spot, and Potter, now without his jacket but wearing a dark-blue shirt with a tie of the same colour as his trousers, made no attempt to hide his delight at the encounter.

"Do you want to take a walk?" he stood in front of the man, his bright, toothy smile lambent.

"No. Step aside, you are obstructing my view."

"There is nothing over there!"

"There are trees and a swimmer in blue trunks."

"Hm," said Potter, seating himself, and brought a hand to his eyes, shielding them from the sun. "You can see the colour of his trunks?"

"Yes, I can. And you should have gotten rid of the problem with your eyesight long ago."

"Ginny thinks the glasses make me more presentable."

"Yes? I also think that it is a fine way to appear more intelligent if one is feeble-minded."

Letting the barb slip, the Minister turned to him and placed his hand on the bench.

"Do you reckon I should grant an amnesty?"

"An amnesty?" Snape leaned forward, so that their foreheads almost collided. "Are you out of your mind? Although… why am I asking? The answer is completely obvious."

"That's why I'm asking!"

"No," he said, then mused for a while and repeated: "No."

"Okay."

*_*_*

The Minister came every day and found the professor on the same bench. They talked about everything: politics, culture, education; Snape's advice always worked, even if at first it seemed too radical for Potter. But there were matters left untouched: the war, Dumbledore's death, the Minister's parents and the professor's resurrection.

On one of the cold November days, when the ducks indeed returned to the lake, the Minister couldn't help asking:

"How did you manage to kill him?"

"And how did you manage to kill the Dark Lord?"

"You still call him 'Lord'."

"And you are still interested in that which you shouldn't be."

They never returned to this subject again.

*_*_*

"I've fallen in love," said Potter. He wore a ridiculous knitted cap, an expensive black coat and thin leather gloves. Bending down, he scooped up a handful of snow and shaped it into a ball. "Say something."

"Congratulations." There was no glee in his voice, but no mean censure either.

"Don't you think it's stupid?"

"No. Everyone falls in love."

Rushing from the bench, the Minister raised his hand and hurled the snowball into the ice-covered lake.

"Even you?"

"Even me."

"With whom?"

"None of your business."

"What should I do?"

"Do what you want." Snape shrugged his shoulders. "It is your life and it is your family."

*_*_*

Once, the professor wasn't there when Potter came, and for a half an hour he ran round the park, sinking into snow up to his waist and feeling ghastly perplexed. The next day, the entire Auror Division was looking for Severus Snape in the houses near Hyde Park and, as the evening fell, Potter for the first time in a long while felt a burning, irrational mirth of relief at seeing the familiar black-clad figure.

"Where have you been?" he said, nearly flinging himself to kiss the man and constantly withdrawing his hands, which kept trying to reach and check that the professor wasn't a figment of his imagination.

"I was ill," the professor answered.

"I was lonely," said Potter.

"I was not," he parried, smiling, and the Minister understood that so was he.

*_*_*

"Today is Christmas Eve," the professor knitted his brow. "Why are you here?"

"Hm," said Potter. "Where should I be?"

"At home. With your red-haired family."

"This is my rightful half an hour," he said and scowled. "Only a half an hour."

"Even on Christmas Eve?"

"Yes." The Minister pulled a small package out of his pocket and, with a flick of his wand, made it grow to the size of a shoebox. "Merry Christmas, professor."

"Thank you." Snape tore off the wrapping and gawped at the ugly plant inside. "A cactus?"

"It's not exactly a cactus," Potter was a bit embarrassed. "It is a Walcedoom."

"I know what it is!" Snape snorted. "But… why?"

"It blossoms beautifully, Neville recommended it to me. And it has thorns."

"Am I supposed to like thorns?"

"No," said the Minister after thinking for a while. "Apparently not. Give it back," he held out his hand, but Snape promptly moved aside.

"I won't. This is a present."

"Suit yourself."

"Hm," the professor was slowly pulling an envelope out of the pocket of his old shabby coat. Then he handed it to Potter. "This is for you."

"What is it?" he said, tearing the paper ribbon off and getting out the wizard photograph – a picture of the bench on which they were sitting. "Wow!"

"Don't mention it."

"No, I will… But why," he flipped the photo over, "is there nothing written here?"

"Do you need an autograph?"

"I see that autographs are your sore spot," Potter laughed.

"No, you are my sore spot, Minister. Kind of like a beloved hemorrhoid."

"Merlin," Potter brought a hand to his mouth, stifling any sounds, but chuckled anyway. "I have never been compared to a hemorrhoid before!"

"That's what you think," said Snape with a smirk.

*_*_*

January was balmy; the car got stuck in the mud, for the snow almost melted. The professor had fun watching the vain struggle of Potter and his driver as they despaired to pull the car out by magic and began to push it with their hands and feet, getting dirt all over themselves.

"You could've helped," said the Minister, sitting down and taking off his cap.

"Couldn't… Button yourself up," Snape glanced at Potter's throat, covered with a loosely wrapped scarf, and looked away. "You will catch a cold."

"It's nothing," he waved nonchalantly. "Would be a reason to skive off work. Although…"

"Although?"

"If I catch a cold, I won't be able to come here."

His fingers – gloveless, reddened and disobedient – tightened the scarf around his neck.

"Yes, that would be a loss."

"You're all venom."

"No. Alas, I am just telling the truth."

Potter brooded for a while, then raised a hand and ruffled his hair.

"It's good, because my staff lacks a skilled Potions maker… Do you want me to employ you?"

"No, I don't," said Snape and turned away, looking at the skyscraper looming in the distance.

"I'm serious!.. I could offer you money, but you won't take it. But you need it… Don't interrupt!" With a wave of his hand, the Minister nipped Snape's objections in the bud. "Your clothes are all tattered, I see that alright, but if you came to the Ministry – even if it's not for a job – if you just came, I'd handle everything, we'd list you among the living again and you would be able to get a pension. If you collected your proper due for the last twenty years, it'd be enough to buy a decent house! Veterans have excellent pensions!'

"I know that," said Snape composedly. "But no."

"What about work? Wouldn't you..?"

"No," he pursed his lips into a thin line, and the Minister understood that it was no use to insist. At least, in the nearest future.

*_*_*

On Valentine's Day, Potter came as well, but was silent and simply contemplated the lake, wrapping the warm jacket tightly round himself.

"Today's a holiday," said Snape. "Are you looking to upset Mrs. Potter? Or that girl of yours… her name flew clean out of my mind."

"We parted all the way back in December, and Mrs. Potter… I'm getting a divorce."

"I don't know whether to be happy or sad about it."

"Do you give a damn?"

"I do not," the professor nodded. "But your countenance is not a very pleasant sight as is; add distress to it – and that will be too much. If you want the divorce, what is this misery about?"

"Today's a holiday!"

"And what of it?"

"People are supposed to rejoice, love and kiss each other… Don't you want that, professor?"

They turned to each other, and Snape's eyes slid from Potter's famous scar to his lips.

"I do."

That made the Minister uneasy and he decided to change the subject.

"Malfoy's running for office."

"He will lose."

"I know," Potter nodded. "That was just information."

"Maybe you shouldn't divorce after all," said the professor after a pause.

"She insisted that I stop coming here. It was a question of principle."

"You are such an idealist. Divorced ministers aren't worth a Knut."

"Then I'll retire and become the youngest pensioner in Wizarding Britain." Potter shrugged.

"And you will spend more time here. That is good."

"Good?"

"Yes, good," repeated the professor. "Fresh air is beneficial to a fair complexion." With that, he pulled a cigarette out of the pack.

*_*_*

Bending down, the Minister pressed the klaxon, and a sharp sound ripped the air and startled the pigeons, peacefully pecking at bread crumbs.

"Now, what's this?" said Snape, frowning. "I've been baiting them for three days!"

"Did you want to get a pigeon as a familiar, professor?" Potter beamed, nearly jumping with impatience.

"No, I wanted to find out if the French were right about the dainty flavour of pigeons… Well, spit it out!"

The Minister stood in front of him, his hands in his pockets, the boring glasses gone – the mediwizards restored his eyesight without much ado. He was smiling.

"I was re-elected!"

"Congratulations!" said the professor and leaned back.

"But that's all thanks to you!.. It was your doing!" Potter couldn't restrain himself. He bent and grabbed Snape with both hands, lifting him jerkily from the bench. Potter tried to embrace him, but saw the man's features, contorted with frustration and anguish. "Mer… what? Oh…"

Snape fell back onto the bench, his palms covering his face. At first, the Minister thought he was crying, but the professor only tried to calm down.

"I'm sorry," said Snape, moving away his hands. "It is not your fault."

"I'm stupid," Potter breathed out, dropping to his knees. "I'm so stupid. I should be the one apologizing. It's been almost a year since I first came here, and I didn't even notice that… I'm sorry!" Grabbing Snape's hands, he squeezed them, then brought one to his lips and kissed it. "Please, I'm so sorry!"

"Stop it!" Snape pleaded quietly. "You are not stupid."

"Yes, I am!" Potter clasped the man's legs and pressed his face to Snape's thigh. "You were always sitting, never wanting to go for a stroll or even a car ride… Oh, I'm so ashamed!"

"You are the Minister, think of your reputation! Get up!.. Knock it off!" He pulled his hands out of Potter's tenacious grip and put them in his pockets.

Potter remained on his knees, so the professor had to grab him by his shoulders and shake.

"Stop this self-tormenting! None of… this is your fault!"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, but got up from his knees and fell onto the bench, diligently hiding his eyes and pretending to be interested in a girl on her evening jog.

"Leave it," said Snape. "I should have… told you." He began speaking faster, stuttering a bit. "I was afraid that you, with your perpetual Griffindor aspiration to defend the weak, would drag me to the doctors. I am sick and tired of them, it is no use – I've been trying for the last twenty years, and I don't want to anymore… Potter!.. Harry," he almost whispered and touched the man's shoulder. "Stop it."

"But why?" Potter turned, his eyes watery. "They would help you at St Mungo's!"

"I don't want anyone to help me."

"P-please!" The Minister's voice trembled slightly. "This is so awfully unjust, that it is you who… Let me arrange everything, I'll take care of it!"

"No…"

"I'm not taking no for an answer," he seized the professor's hand, still lying on his shoulder, and clasped it to his chest. "I'll come here tomorrow and bring you to St Mungo's. No objections!" He leaped up and ran to his car. Turning back by the car, Potter smiled a guilty smile, waved, got inside and slammed the door shut.

*_*_*

The next day Snape wasn't there.

Potter sat on their bench, knees pulled up to his chest, and stared, transfixed, into the distance for a long time, frowning at his thoughts.

*_*_*

He came every day and sat for a while, his trousers crumpled and his shirt stale. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked more and more haggard with each passing day.

Desperation became excruciating until, on one of the sultry June days Potter, while driving to the bench, saw from afar the familiar silhouette. The wrinkles on his forehead relaxed, he popped out of his car, holding a paper with one hand and smoothing down his hair with the other.

"Hello, professor," he said, coming closer and stopping in front of Snape.

"Good day to you, Minister. You are early today."

Potter blinked rapidly, not daring to believe his own eyes, then he handed Snape the paper.

"I'm not the Minister anymore."

"Maybe you can tell me yourself?"

"No, you… look, it's all in there."

Snape opened the _Daily Prophet_ and folded it again at once, only taking one look at the photographs.

"Who?"

"I don't know, it doesn't matter anymore. One of the Aurors which were operating the wizarding cameras around here, decided to make a little extra money."

"You should have raised their wages."

"You are still joking," Potter sat on the bench and stretched in a cat-like way. "You know, I'm glad that I had to resign."

"You don't look it."

"This is…" he straightened out the crease on his trousers, "not because of the job. I thought you wouldn't come back, professor."

"It is astounding how needed I can become, is it not?"

"And I've thought over…" the man continued: "all the other things."

"What, precisely?"

"Everything," he reached out his hand and covered Snape's palm, which was resting on the bench. "Will you go to St Mungo's?"

"I will if you explain what it means," he nodded at their hands. "This gesture."

"I will if you go."

"Twit." That was said almost gently.

"You mean to say that I'm an idiot or that I am a goal-seeking ex-Minister for Magic in his prime?"

"Goal-seeking idiot," Snape sighed and pulled his wand out of the wrinkles of his shapeless shirt. "Distract the Muggles. I wouldn't mind being carried, but you don't want to compromise yourself once again. Mobilicorpus!"

*_*_*

The door was cracked open; he peeped in, holding the huge package to his chest, his eyes scrutinizing the nurse who was teaching Snape to walk anew. Step by step, slowly he walked, scowling and breathing heavily and noisily with exertion, but nonetheless he walked!

After opening the door with a sprightly smile on his face, Potter nodded to the nurse and she went away. He was the same Harry, the Savior and A Very Important Person, and people around were still enraptured at seeing him, having forgotten the scandal with the photographs much faster than he expected. Just like Snape had promised they would, after looking over the publications.

"Wow," the professor noticed the package in Potter's hands. "A delivery from my fan club?"

"No, this is from me. I've dropped by a shop on the way here," he placed the package onto the bedside table and approached Snape. "How are you, professor?"

"As you can see… 'Professor'? We've been through that, Potter, or do you still have an age difference complex?"

"No." He shuddered. "I'm getting used to it. I've called you that for such a long time, after all. What are the doctors saying?"

"I'll be discharged from the hospital in a week," the professor made for his bed, but his legs gave way, and Potter managed to grab him, stricken by the notion of how strong Snape's arms were. And it hit him at once that they were embracing, really holding each other, their faces so close that one inch closer – and their noses would bump.

"Can I help you… sit down?" he said a long moment later.

"No, I'm quite all right," said Snape in a voice more like a whisper, and that whisper sent a shiver down Harry's spine.

And then the man hemmed.

"You are mocking me," Potter whispered, noticing that he sounded somehow frightened.

"I would give Griffindor points, but that is so vulgar."

The professor's pajamas smelled strongly of medicine, but Potter didn't want to break their hug. He did want to say something important, but he felt scared to the marrow of his bones, and so he stood, pressing against Snape and hugging him, when it occurred to him that this was a real embrace, not a friendly one, not one bit.

"You promised to tell me," the professor whispered, brushing Potter's ear with his lips, which sent hot shivers through the young man's body. "Why you covered my hand with yours."

"For the same reason," began Potter; Snape's hair was gathered in a ponytail and didn't impede whispering as well, "why I'm hugging you now."

"Supporting a helpless cripple?"

"You are impossible," answered Potter.

"That's not news to me."

"Help me," he turned his head and looked into Snape's eyes. "Please."

"I'm flattered," began Snape in a very quiet and low voice and leaned, his lips softly touching Potter's cheek. "that not a year has gone by, and we are already embracing. At seventy, we should be able to make it to bed. Your seventy, of course…"

"Shut up," Potter drew nearer and kissed him.

On the lips.

And that wasn't scary, not a bit.

And it lasted much longer than half an hour.

Much, much longer.


End file.
